Locked Out
by SmittiMJC
Summary: It wasn't a necessity- not initially. It was just one of those things you were told to do and you realized, midway through, that you were good at it. Really good at it. They never told him that once the door was open they would confiscate the key. But that was point Z of the story. Stealing was point A, and there were a lot of letters between A and Z. Or in this case, A and Y.


For as long as he could recall there seemed to be a reason for everything. Summer came to bloom nature. Rain made water, Work

provided money, food sustained life. But he couldn't understand what long term purpose education had. _Learning_, he understood, but why

_18 years _of it?

As one could say, simplicity was the crutch of the easy going and York was severely crippled. _Too_ relaxed his friends would say. Even after

he was christened York, he retained his nature. Luckily for him he was also confident and despite being slightly more passive then

aggressive, he could definitely hold his own when he wasn't holding his tongue. Some people liked that...and some hated it. But, if you

weren't hated, something was wrong, right?

Right.

So York- James as he had once been, and J before that- was happy. He lived day to day by the skin of his families teeth and he liked it. He

never got what he wanted but he always had what he needed, and as the oldest, he didn't mind donating whatever that may have been

to the youngsters of the family.

The covenant war pushed that envelope open. He couldn't straddle the fence anymore between priority and desire. It was no longer

about what _he_ wanted.

People were being drafted.

Family's were being broken, and capable men and women were being killed for a cause they hadn't even known much about.

Aliens. Must. Die. And that was that. It was them...or the humans and global suicide wasn't an option.

Neither was the draft. If you were in school you were a candidate. Graduation was nearing and blood pressure was rising. You

wouldn't be heading to college after you got your diploma. They may as well have begun handing out the heavy Battle rifles to each

graduate and letting them change into fatigues and armor backstage. And the soldiers were far from ideal, but desperation was also far

from picky.

They weren't pressed for beefcakes and good shots. If you could heft a gun up _to_ shoot, whether you made the shot or not, you were an

acceptable fit for the boots of combat. Future fighters looked more like youth's punching in for work then punching out for war. York

himself was of average build. Chocolate hair varying almost minutely from brown to bronze, and as most people called it, a baby face.

Though he had been destined to be fitted with his fathers strong jawline and his mothers soft features, his eyes were his own. An at ease

almond shape blessed with more gray then slate blue. Most would call him too handsome for battle. York would agree, naturally. He didn't

want to fight anyone else's war...but this war didn't fit the criteria for disagreement. This was humanities war...and he was a part of

humanity.

He could've just admitted to himself that dropping out of school would save him from almost certain death. After all, the first few waves

were experimental. They weren't just yet entirely sure what would beat the covenant or which guns and tactics had any effect in warfare.

It was all guess and check for now and he hadn't survived 19 years to be a tally on someones casualty list. His argument was solid, he

thought, but he knew one stubborn pro-conflict mind that would turn his reasoning to far fetched excuses; The future Agent Carolina.

* * *

In only a few years time, after she had fought and made the grade to be accepted into Project Freelancer, and he had accidentally found

himself there after his learned skill set of breaking and entering coupled with his instinct in a fight had been taken notice of, she wouldn't

even remember his real name. He would reciprocate the insult and they would come to know each other as they did now by Carolina and

York. Carolina. York.

So formal and yet familiar.

* * *

But he would prove her wrong this time. He would offer facts and evidence to her skepticism. Stubborn resolution to her dismissive

superiority. As he always did after school (Or ditching school in this case) he met her at his house to do their homework in the living room.

He found the routine some lighter shade of romantic, noting the implication of having a female at your home

every day.

Carolina found it to be habit. Simply a quiet place to work away from the pressure of her mother and father. The child of

perfectionists. The sacrificial canary in the mine, choking on death to warn others of danger.

The house was empty thanks to York and Carolina's early dismissal for being A/F students. A single table rested in the

center of the living room, the others having been sold for food money. It was at this table where Carolina set her bag down, then her papers.

Almost systematically, she sorted through them by level of difficulty and began her trance of brilliance. Still, York figured maybe, in this

state, he could catch her off guard. Thus, he presented his argument. But it came out weaker then he had given it credit for in his mind.

"School's not for me, y'know? It's pretty much pointless if you cant use what you learn in the streets..."

No evidence.

No facts.

He had used opinion after all.

He realized the vulnerability of his slack posture as he leaned toward her on the table with his fingers laced. He quickly straightened his

back, "I'm not reaching you am I?" The soft baritone of his voice lulled her from her studies.

Her lips curved at one side and she shrugged her shoulders, jostling the red ponytail that had been resting there, much more focused

on the numerical design on her homework paper then in her friends whining (well manly complaining York would prefer it be called). He

smiled back, using the distraction to pilfer the sheet from the table with fingers faster than light and waited until the greyish emerald of

her eyes met the pond-like silver of his own eyes.

"Seriously, listen to me. I don't see the point. Help me out here..."

She set her pencil beside her and regarded him with the interest reserved for her work, eyes flashing in an almost dangerous manner. A

glance he had come to recognize as a warning. For her own actions or for her victims, he could now tell and this look- Auburn brows

seated low over her lashes and her white teeth only slightly bared behind the shimmer of carnation lips- meant she would either hit him or

leave altogether.

"James, what are you going to do? Drop out? Is that it?," Her voice rose with the subtle inflections of caged annoyance. Then the cage

opened and she let him have it," Then drop out! I'm going to the army. I've trained and taken all these classes to help me get there and

that's where I'm going, bottom line. You don't need anyone else to make your decision. And if you need help to make a choice for yourself

then it doesn't need to be made." Her gaze flickered to her homework paper he was now unconsciously balling up in his quiet anger. She

tapped his hand to make him release it.

He did. York was never one for displays of rage, but that didn't mean he didn't feel it. It just came later, calmer, like a trickle of hot sauce

down a persons throat. It took time to spike. He frowned more at her truth then his own anger of having to face it and knew without

asking her that she had no more patience for his decision. She had a goal and she was focused on it.

He stood up, and he walked out. Tact evaded him. Words fell away from him and he felt hollow except for his anger. Anger that he couldn't

feed with enough malice to make it potent. So he stood up, and he walked out.

* * *

It would be thirty minutes into his walk before he was able to laugh at being virtually kicked out of his own home. When he returned,

Carolina was still there, standing at the door with her baby blue scarf and her coat, reminding him he was unseasonably dressed in the

button down and slacks of their uniform. He shivered as he reached her , but an entirely different chill went down his spine when she

pulled him close and held him to her. He could feel every developing contour of her body pressed to his. The curve of her breasts against

his chest and the dip of a curve to her waist where he rested his own hands before tightening the embrace. Her arms were wrapped

carefully around his neck and her cheek pressed to his rising Adams apple.

Nothing sensual. Only affectionate.

He closed his eyes, savoring the uncharacteristic moment of fragility. Breaths were taken- hers shallow and his quiet and gruff.

"I'm sorry." She finally sighed against his throat.

He tilted his head a bit so that his lips were at the start of her hairline and kissed her forehead, "S'okay. You know you're forgiven."

He opened his eyes and committed the moment to memory. From his attentive periphery he noticed an envelope in her grasp and pulled

back. His hand fell down her arm until his fingers touched the cool paper and he gave her a look of permission. She revealed no

expression, only handed him the letter.

"You're in the army?" He asked, but knowing his luck he knew that wasn't the case.

"This is yours." She said slowly, "I got mine yesterday."

So they were both in the army. A sort of poisonous dread filed through his veins, making him forget the cold and the heat of their embrace

all at once.

"But they don't hire...I mean recruit. They don't recruit-"

They weren't supposed to be bothering with students that were dropping out. But then they weren't supposed to be recruiting three

months before graduation either.

"Clearly, they do," She said sternly, "And they have."

"What are my options?" He wasn't sure why he asked, or why he thought she would know. But she always knew things she shouldn't.

"Join...or jail probably. If they aren't forcing people. But I think they are."

"..."

"J?"

"I'm not going."

* * *

He would find that when it came to war his solution was often going to be running. After Project Freelancers break in he had come to the

same conclusion, although at that point Carolina was hardly the girl she had been. She still had a healthy role in convincing him. She had

wanted the life of a soldier, reveled in it. He had ran from it only to run into its arms.

Both of them had met death by meeting the director,

they just didn't know it then.

* * *

He turned from her but she followed him this time, close behind him holding his letter. He wanted to tell her to go back, or that he didn't

need comfort, but he had never been good with words, nor lying. Maybe that's why he would later welcome the apathetic persona of his

loyal AI. The more he taught Delta to understand human sentiment, the more he himself learned.

Carolina took his hand and he squeezed the soft heat of her mitten back, his eyes focused on the sidewalk beneath his feet. Each

footstep heavier than the last (He would regret the metaphor once he began training in the weighty MJOLNIR armor).

Still, Carolina kept pace, her head high as she watched the clouds.

"You should just go."

"And just _die_?" He said, laughing humorlessly, "I like being_ alive_. Y'know, so should you."

"I do. I just want a _reason_ to be. This is my reason."

He stopped walking, "And what am I?"

"Are you implying _you_ are my reason for living?"

"I'm opening up a door I want you to close."

She smiled, "Lets just leave that door _locked_ for now...okay." It wasn't a question, and her warning look came with it...as well as a very

slight blush.

"Okay."

"Good. Do your homework, come to school tomorrow."

He was hesitant, but he finally nodded, "If I do, you have to kiss me."

She laughed and let his hand go to continue away from him toward her own home, "Get the hell out of here."

Smiling he turned himself and went home, not bothering to remind her that she still held his letter.

* * *

He didn't go to school the next day, and Carolina didn't bring his letter to school with her because they both knew he wouldn't be present.

He packed his bags that night and left home, only telling his father who gave him a look of such disappointment he forgot how to inspire

courage in himself to even contemplate telling his mother.

* * *

He broke into his first home just getting away from a standard cop, but the rush was worth it. He had on him only a knife (having shed all

other luxuries by that time) and shoved it into the keyhole, probing and twisting until it caved into his efforts. From there, it got easier.

Each lock hardly seemed like a defense. Just an obstacle for him. The holographic locks would prove more difficult, but even they fell before

his natural talent. The more high scale his break ins became, the more opposition he found was hunting him.

The day he got caught, he felt no fear as he had before facing the draft. Only a high he couldn't come down from. A high of pride. Of

knowing it had taken them 4 years to catch one man. At twenty three, the judge offered him an ultimatum: Rot in prison, or thrive doing

what he loved in the newly established project freelancer.

* * *

For his utter lack of interest in military savvy tactics he was surprisingly good at it. His muscles responded before his mind could doubt himself. His guns became extensions of his eyes and arms.

When he had finished and excelled at his combat and professional infiltration training, the new armor irking him, he was entered into the

program. When he seen Carolina and she spoke, her commanding voice unmistakable, he took off his helmet and smiled. Carolina blinked

back her urge to say his name, but it failed her memory anyway and they ended up remaking introductions.

She was Carolina now, and he was York.

* * *

They seemed to pick up where they left off from there. A little closer and more affectionate then friends, though not possessive enough to

be lovers either. They settled into a comfortably ambiguous back and fourth of flirting and attraction. With ease he soared to number 2 on

the ranks. Too much ease it seemed. With the board changing after each mission it was almost meaningless to have it. Nevertheless, he

was comfortable again. He was back to being in a family. Meshed between Norths nurturing nature and Wash's cautious inexperience, he

felt more like a middle child than the oldest. with everything he wanted and needed, still managing to maintain the adrenaline of being a

criminal sanctioned by the governments whims. Things stayed that way for a while, then everything went downhill.

* * *

After a while he decided it was okay, because even after Carolina disappeared- though the story they were told was that she had died-

and Maine defected and the AI went to shit, he was able to return to comfort. A different level of comfort, but comfort all the same.

A comfort of experience and age. Of simply stealing and breaking in for necessity again. But with his left eye injured from time and battle,

he grew bored of it. Just when he and Delta had truly settled into a routine, much like he and Carolina's years past, Tex offered him a

job, much like the judge had: Fight with her, or continue as he was.

He could've finished the novel of his life with a peaceful passing in his sleep. Delta would go out with him he was sure, so the AI wouldn't

be compromised. But an old rage had boiled against his chest and pricked under his skin. In the blind cavity where his left eye had been

more than a scar he felt a slow trickle of vengeance.

Like hot sauce.

He consulted with Delta and Delta agreed.

Payback would be nice.

* * *

Something told him it was about to end, but it didn't matter anymore.

Being so close to death as he had many times before, made him familiar with it. Even Delta could understand. He followed Tex to hell, but

she didn't join him. He went out alone, headfirst into a wall after being hit on his left side. Delta reacted more then he did. He blazed

crimson, igniting the last sight York was to see. Tex rushing to stand over him.

She shared a look he recognized. He remembered his own face looked like that when he saw his reflection in her visor as she pointed her

paint gun at her reflection in his.

A subtle dread and concern.

York!" She yelled.

"_Alarm!_"Deltas voice mirrored the opposite of his words.

"Its that _damn_ left side!" York remembered grumbling.

Suddenly Delta dying with him seemed selfish. How could he assume his AI wanted to perish with him?

Before he could give Delta a directive to leave him, the AI had administered sedatives to lessen the pain burning in his bullet wounded

chest. He felt the fire fade to something else and then there was only a faint sound of a scuffle in his ears, followed by a dull ringing. He

felt Delta by his side until the last breath left his lips on a smile.

_It was worth it..._ he thought proudly, ignoring the memory of his fathers shame for the pride of his fellow agents each time he got them

into an otherwise locked place. Even when he messed up, there was always_ someone_ who helped him up.

Less and less often that person was Carolina.

But still, that made it all worth it.

Carolina's competitiveness, fighting alongside Maine and Wyoming, as well as Wash and the others. Baiting their lives to danger only to

pull away and survive at the last second. It had been fun.

_How many will meet me?_ he wondered, who else had died? He figured Wyoming would meet his end by Tex shortly, but everyone else had

evaded him, or vice-versa, for the years after the failed break in. Carolina, he hoped, would be present. He had never come to terms with

her mortality though. She was too good to die. Somehow, he hoped, she was alive and not bitter and psychotic as she had been during

her descent into madness and her AI's simultaneous descents into rampancy. He even found himself wondering if Delta would be present,

but figured otherwise after dwelling on it. That didn't matter. Delta was with him now and though he was leaving his partner of years, he

was, or he prayed, he would be reuniting with another.

**_Reviews are the blood in my veins. Help keep me alive ^_^_**


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